


your arms they keep me steady

by bobbimqrse



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbimqrse/pseuds/bobbimqrse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s going to be okay, Bobbi,” he says, pulling her closer “We’re going to get through this.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you take me from the dark

**Author's Note:**

> \- This fic will have several chapters, and deals with Bobbi's PTSD after the events of the season two finale.   
> \- Additional warnings will be added later if necessary.   
> \- Title and chapter title from 'Yours' by Ella Henderson.

_The door opens and she’s straining against her bonds and screaming muffled warnings through the gag to stop him. His expression turns from relief that he’s found her to shock and pain as the bullet slams into him. He crumples to the ground with a moan, one hand pressed over the wound. She cries out as the chair won’t budge, and a scarlet pool forms beneath him._

She vaguely registers shouting and the frantic beeping of machines; but all she can think about is Lance’s limp form on the floor. Oh god, she can’t save him.

_Every breath is shallower than the last as more and more blood slips through his fingers and he slips from consciousness. The door opens again and this time Kara walks in. She walks past him like he doesn’t even matter, a smug smile on her face. Bobbi screams and thrashes, helpless._

_He’s going to die._

There are hands on her now, trying to force down into the bed. She struggles against them, raising a fist blindly and smashing it into someone’s face. There’s a yelp and a string of curse words, but she doesn’t stop.

 _He lays there; still and pale, face contorted in agony. He’s_ dead _. She pulls harder at her restraints, desperate to get to Kara and make her feel the same pain she feels._

“Bobbi,” says Hunter, a sense of urgency in his voice “Bobbi, you’re in the med bay, you’re safe!”

He catches her wrists and moves to hold her hands. He squeezes them gently, trying to bring her back.

“I’m here, Bob. Open your eyes. Just open your eyes,” he pleads.

After a few seconds, she does. He’s standing above her, and there’s horror written all over his face. There’s a splatter of blood too.  _Her blood_ , she realises.

Gunshots are ringing in her head and she can’t breathe, can barely move. His blood is the only thing she can see. It’s red. Everything is red.

He presses her wrists into the hospital bed as she continues to struggle, trying so damn hard to stop her hurting herself more. Her wrists are scratched from pulling at the cuffs in that god awful warehouse, and she flinches as he presses deeper. He releases her immediately, as if her skin burns.

“Shit, I’m sorry-“ he says, bringing his hand to rest lightly on her forearm instead.

“It’s okay,” she says, surprised at how hoarse her voice is.

He’s holding the cup of water to her lips before she even has to ask. She sips at it until her lips don’t crack when she moves them, and then turns her head away, a wave of nausea passing over her.

“The doctor put you on a high dose of pain meds, Bob,” he explains.

“Well it’s definitely working,” she says, with a tight smile. She aches all over, but that’s not surprising.

 “Do you need anything?” he asks with concern.

“I’m fine.”

That’s a lie, but it’s worth it to see how he visibly relaxes. She looks into his eyes, focusing on the emotions there. The lifeless look still haunts her but it’s not real. He’s alive. She didn’t fail. He’s _alive_.

 “Lance-“

“Shh, Bobbi. Just rest.”

He runs his hand through her hair and she finally feels her heartrate slow, each breath coming more easily. She allows her eyes to slide closed, the bright lights too harsh to fight anymore. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Don’t leave,” she murmurs. She can feel her eyelids closing, even as she tries to force them open. She doesn’t want to sleep; it’ll only bring nightmares. Unfortunately, her body has other ideas. 

“I’m going to be right here, love.”

She smiles up at him, but her eyes are still watery. He laces their fingers together and then settles back into the chair beside her.

“Come here,” she says, patting the side of the bed.

Worry flashes in his eyes at the thought of accidentally hurting her.

“I’m not broken,” she says. There’s no conviction in the words. She can’t blame him for his reluctance. She can’t walk and she has months of rehabilitation and recovery ahead of her. She jumps at every noise, trembles like a damn leaf in the wind every time she sees a needle.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Bob.”

“I don’t care. I just want you to hold me. Please.”

He never could say no to her, especially with the pleading look in her eyes. He knows all too well what it’s like to have nightmares and wake up alone in the dark. His lips turn up in a slight smile as he remembers how she’d wake him whenever he had a particularly bad one, and sit with him until the sky lightened. She always knew exactly what to do.

As carefully as he can, he squeezes himself into the hospital bed, so he’s half-sitting, half-lying. She rolls her eyes, and it’s the most normal thing she’s done since the incident. He pulls her gently to his chest and she rests her head there, hand pressed harder than necessary against him. She’s terrified that if she lets go he’ll disappear and she’ll be back in the damn warehouse.

The steady rhythm of his heartbeat eventually lulls her into sleep. It’s a precious reminder that he’s alive. That’s he’s here. That he’s _safe._

 

* * *

 

 

_There are voices in her head, whispering ‘confess’ and ‘closure’. There are needles. There’s blood. There’s pain. It’s all so vivid. She feels the wall give way as Ward throws her against it, feels the cool metal of the bar she swings on. She sees the ground rushing towards her, feels the impact in her palms. There’s white hot pain, and she hears bone shatter. She hears her own scream._

She’s still in his arms when she finally breaks out of the nightmare. He’s panic stricken and she’s aware enough to realise why as the heart rate monitor beeps wildly. She’s shaking.  

His voice is soft as he whispers words that sound comforting, but that she can’t really make out.

Her fingertips are tingling, and she needs it to _stop_. She digs cracked nails into the palm of her hand. It hurts but the throbbing is so much better than the sting that Ward had caused.

The machine she’s hooked up to continues to beep. She’s in hospital. She’s with Lance. Lance won’t let anything happen to her. She releases a shaky breath.

“Bobbi,” he says in a way that reminds her of trying to placate a startled animal.

He uncurls her hand, and she doesn’t resist. The white gauze is stained red, and she mutters an apology even as the urge to press harder overwhelms her. She can still feel the needles. It’s as if they’re still there.

Lance seems to realise that, and takes her injured hand, lacing their fingers together. It helps. The warmth and the pressure remind her that she’s not alone.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks.

She considers not telling him. He doesn’t need to hear her say it. He can probably work it out from her injuries. The more realistic part of her knows that she needs to let it all out, and there’s nobody she trusts more.

“Ward,” she says, simply. Her free hand unconsciously goes to her wrist, rubbing where the metal had kept her pinned to the table.

She notices the change in him at just the mention of his name. His eyes darken a little, his jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything, gives her the space to continue or not. She’s grateful that he doesn’t push her.

“Kara told him about my fear of needles. I-I thought it’d be okay. But he used this fucked up drug. Anaesthetic, paralytic. Made the pain come all at once,” she says.  She grips his hand tighter. “I thought I could handle him. Torture, I’ve been trained for it. But- I almost gave in. He almost won.”

He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he squeezes her hand back, a silent gesture of reassurance. He keeps the fact that he feels sick to his stomach to himself. He doesn’t tell her that he’s planning all the ways he can kill Ward with his bare hands for what he did to her.

“I got the restraints off. I don’t know how, but we were fighting and then Kara came with a gun. That’s when he broke my leg. She nearly shot me. I was _ready_ for it. But then they involved you.”

At that, she dissolves into tears. His arms are wrapped around her again in seconds. She hates that she can’t hold on to him in the same way. It’s all she wants. She tries, but her shoulder aches in protest before she can even sit up.

“It’s going to be okay, Bobbi,” he says, pulling her closer “We’re going to get through this.”

He feels her nod against him as she cries harder.


	2. but i'm only human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Lance returns to their bunk, he finds her on the floor by the closet, crutches abandoned to the side and a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched in her hand. His bottle of whiskey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Trigger warning for alcohol abuse, slight warning for a brief thought of self harm from drinking alcohol while on pain medication.  
> \- Chapter title from 'Human' by Christina Perri.  
> \- Hope you enjoy :)

Bobbi wakes up trembling, tangled in the sheets. She’s had the same recurring nightmare ever since she was kidnapped. Each night she woke up with the image of Lance dead or dying burned into her brain.

The space beside her in the bed is cold and empty and the loss of his presence hits her like a bullet. Her lungs constrict as images of Ward and Kara creep into her brain. What if they have him? What if he’s already dead? What if she can’t save him this time?

It only takes a few moments for the rational side of her brain to catch up and remember that he’d been forced to go on a mission. He’d resisted, despite Coulson telling him how crucial it was, until she’d insisted she’d be fine.

She grips the sheet like it’s a lifeline, but it’s not enough. She’s still shaking, taking gasping breaths that don’t give her enough air. The clock reads 2:19 which means he’ll be home soon. _Should be._ Maybe Ward got to him first. Maybe it was another trap. Oh god, maybe they took him.

The clock casts a strange glow over the room that reminds her of the dim lighting in the place she was held, and she hurls it across the room. It hits the wall and cracks, and the noise just reminds her of the gunshot.

The same terror she’d felt when she thought she was too late comes rushing to the surface. She remembers how thankful she’d been when she felt the bullet tear through her shoulder because at least it was her, and not him. Then the memory of the agonising pain comes and he’s begging her to hold on.

_Just hold on, Bob. Please hold on._

She has to make it stop. Now.

 

* * *

 

 She slides her hands awkwardly into the crutches at her bedside, slamming them against the ground with more force than necessary. It’s embarrassing. Not long ago she was one of SHIELD’s best agents, and now she can’t even walk to the other side of the room by herself.  It’s _pathetic_.

The voices won’t leave and she needs to drown them out. She needs to forget, escape her own mind and its demons. Alcohol. She needs alcohol.

It had always been Hunter’s thing (god knows they’d argued over it enough). Her preferred coping mechanism had been beating the shit out of a punching bag at the gym, until all she could feel was her fists pounding against it and hear her own laboured breathing. Now she can’t even do that. One day with Ward and his puppet and she’s practically bed-bound, unable to do _anything_ without someone fussing over her like a goddamn child.

Her hands fumble in the closet for the bottle she knows he stashed there. She pretends to sleep; to stop him worrying, to stop them putting her on pills that will keep her trapped in her nightmares for even longer. But she feels the dip in the bed every time he shuffles out, quietly slides the door open and unscrews the bottle.

Her fingers close around it and she slides down the wall (or falls down, with a sharp stabbing pain in her leg). She doesn’t bother with a glass, and raises it to her lips. She’s still trembling, and she just wants it to stop. She wants to feel normal again. The liquid burns its way down her throat and she coughs, before tilting it back once more.

It doesn’t even matter that it’s whiskey and she hates whiskey. It’s his, and that brings her some comfort even though she wishes he was there to chase her demons away himself. She wants his arms around her. It’s the only way she knows he’s safe. 

Belatedly, she remembers the cocktail of pain meds they have her on, and how meds and alcohol should never mix. She decides she doesn’t care. Her body’s already given up on her. What harm can a little whiskey do? There’s already a warmth spreading through her, blocking the pain and the memories. She gulps more down.  

 

* * *

 

In the end, it’s more than a little. She starts and then she just can’t stop. Her head is spinning, but it’s better that way. Everything is blissfully numb.

When Lance returns to their bunk, he finds her on the floor by the closet, crutches abandoned to the side and a half empty bottle of whiskey clutched in her hand. _His_ bottle of whiskey. God, what was he thinking leaving her alone with alcohol nearby? What was he thinking leaving her _alone_?

His panic makes him forget to close the door gently and the bang as it slams shut causes her to jump. The bottle falls from her grip and hits the ground with a thud. The liquid spills out, but she’s too far gone to care. She’s blinking up at him, saying nothing.

He’s about to shout at her for being so damn _stupid_ , until he sees her bloodshot eyes, glassy with tears. He softens immediately, trying to calm his racing heart. She’s fine. He’s with her now. She’s going to be okay.

He doesn’t let himself think about what could have happened if he hadn’t come back, if she’d kept drinking until she’d passed out.

“It won’t go away,” she mumbles “It won’t stop.”

“Oh, Bob,” he says, crouching in front of her “Let’s get you up.”

“They’re still here. Always here.”

She sloppily raises her hand and taps her forehead, and the movement breaks his heart. 

“We need to get you to the doctor,” he says, managing to get her to her feet “Can you wa-?”

He doesn’t realise his poor phrasing until it’s too late.

She lets out a broken sob, and falls against him. He stumbles to the side before tightening his hold on her waist, draping her good arm over his shoulder. Her face is hidden, buried in his shirt; but he can tell she’s crying. Her whole body is shaking.

There’s no resistance as he mostly carries her over to the door. That’s how he knows that she isn’t doing anywhere near as well as she’d been pretending. If she was fine, Bobbi would have fought him tooth and nail for even suggesting she go back to the med bay. She hated hospitals.

God, how could he have been so stupid as to leave her alone.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she mumbles.

“Shit,” he curses.

She’s as white as a sheet and he ignores her slight gasp as he picks her up and rushes her to the bathroom. He sets her down beside the toilet and closes the door behind him. She may be too drunk to care right now, but he knows she’d hate for anyone else to see her in this state.

She’s sobbing again as she heaves into the toilet bowl, and each cry is like a punch to the gut. He quickly finds a cloth and runs it under the cold tap, before kneeling beside her. With one hand, he pulls her hair out of the way and uses the other to gently massage her shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he says as she retches again “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Eventually, she stops heaving and settles against him. She’s feverish so he presses the cloth against her forehead and wipes at the corners of her mouth with a tissue. She sighs softly, leaning further into him.

He sits back against the wall, so she’s propped up against him. He keeps the cloth against her flushed skin but it doesn’t seem to help much.

“’m sorry” she slurs, before sleep pulls her under.

He knows he should take her to a doctor just to be safe, but she looks relatively peaceful in his arms. It’s doubtful that he’d be able to lift her without jostling her knee from this position. He tilts her head up carefully and brushes her hair back, making sure she can breathe easily.

He wants to apologise for putting her through this so often, during their marriage and after their divorce. She’d found him drunk and barely responsive far too many times. Because of something so trivial like yet another half-truth or a mission that lasted longer than it was supposed to. How could he have been so _selfish?_

He’d been terrified when he found her collapsed. Hell, he still is. He remembers the time she’d cried and begged him to stop drinking. _For me, Lance. You can’t keep doing this to yourself_. _Please_. He understands the countless times she’d screamed at him that he was going to drink himself into a grave and launched his half empty beer bottles at the wall.

Bobbi mumbles something unintelligible as she sleeps, and he sighs. He has no clue how to help her through this. She’d gone through something nobody should ever have to. If only he’d got to her sooner. Or if he hadn’t spent so long ignoring her just to hurt her. Then maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess, and she wouldn’t be lying half-conscious against him.

He watches the rise and fall of her chest, and concentrates on the way her breath feels against his hand, watching for the slightest sign of something going wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is very much appreciated!
> 
> You can come talk to me on twitter @aqentsimmons :)

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on twitter @aqentsimmons :)


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